So I know I'm your first boyfriend. And I know you went to all that trouble of copying your apartment key, monogramming those towels and convincing your parents I'm into the bible and shit. But when you told me you loved me today "" after fourteen days, to be honest, I thought you were stoned. Now it's I who feel stoned. To death. By your relentless affection.
In retrospect, there were some red flags. Maybe it was the puppy you bought for us on day five. Maybe it was our one-week "anniversary" when you carved my initials into your thigh as a gift. Or maybe it was when we saw Million Dollar Baby and I wished that girl was you.
I like you, don't get me wrong. You're cute. Your insane fascination with my pinky toe, which you named Mitch, is not. I don't even mind that you watch me sleep. It's when I wake up and you're making a wax mold of my genitals that's the problem. At first I thought, "It's not you, it's me." But then that puppy shat on my rug, and I realized it's probably you. Seriously.
I'm flattered that you memorized my phone number, but you didn't have to keep reciting it out loud during our American Lit class over and over and over again until I finally convinced the guy in front of us that you were up for a role in Rain Man 2. It's almost as if someone took a shotgun, filled it with all the psychoses in the world, and shot you with it.
For instance, I'm sick of hearing that every major character from every novel in the history of the written word is a metaphor for Christ. Holden Caulfield is not Christ. Harry Potter is not Christ "" although he is capable of turning himself invisible. Thus, he would be perfect for you. I've got his number here somewhere. Oh, here it is. 1-800-IHAVETHE-EMOTIONALDEPENDENCY-OF-A-6-
Don't get me wrong; this isn't about your religion. Although if that makes it easier to break up with you, then yes, religion's exactly what this is about. Blame God. He loves you more than I do, and He'll probably kill you first.
But let's not get off track. Hearing about your passion for community service was great. Hearing about the banana seat bicycle that stole your virginity was not. Just because the bike didn't belong to you, doesn't make it assault. I know that. You know that. And unfortunately, the entire smoking section at Bennigans knows that, too.
If it makes you feel any better, nobody's perfect. In fact, it took me a long time to bring this up with you. Almost twelve days to be exact. Twelve days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes. Forty-three.
Don't blame yourself. Perhaps your parents failed. Or died when you were little. If the latter's the case, I'm truly sorry, and jealous of them.
Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who stopped taking birth control pills and didn't tell you about it. Maybe I'm the psycho. No, wait, it's not me. It's you. Seriously.
Dave Holstein enjoys your e-mail. Send him some at firstname.lastname@example.org.